


Whatever It Takes

by amphitrite



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amphitrite/pseuds/amphitrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark reinterprets "The Art of War" to fight for Bruce's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kawahori for the World's Finest Gift Exchange, Prompt F37, _"Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected."_

Clark Kent was a desperate man.

For months, Bruce had been driving him crazy. Ever since they had worked on that case in the Whirlpool galaxy, growing closer than they had in years, Clark hadn’t been able to get Bruce off his mind. It didn’t help that he couldn’t discern the flickering gazes and discreet physical affection that had peppered his interactions with Bruce in the past few weeks. He didn’t know if his piqued interest in Bruce was coloring his perception of their relationship, which was what scared him. Although he had promised himself to put his wish to kiss Bruce to rest when he had realized what was behind his sudden eagerness for Bruce’s affection, Bruce’s subtle actions were crumbling his resolve. If there was even the slightest chance that Bruce shared his interest, then Clark wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

But Clark was no expert in seduction, and his years of courting Lois had been convoluted and full of fumbling and naiveté. That wouldn’t do for Bruce, who was used to having the attention of beautiful, strong women like Selina Kyle and Talia al’ Ghul. Bruce was used to having the very best, and Clark wasn’t about to shortchange him.

*

Clark had been tidying up his apartment when he had found the bright pink magazine under a pile of newspapers on his coffee table. Kara must have left it when she had visited the previous week. As he tossed it into the recycling pile, he noticed one of the headlines on the cover – it read “10 Tips to Winning a Guy’s Heart” in bold yellow letters, the words pasted over the thin-waisted, big-breasted woman who graced the flashy cover in a blue bikini.

No. He wasn’t that desperate. He was no thirteen-year-old girl with a silly crush on some boy she would never attain.

Clark impulsively grabbed the magazine before he thought better of it. Well, it certainly couldn’t hurt to look… After looking around furtively and x-raying the room for any would-be spectators, he tentatively peeled open the magazine. He eyed the pages in trepidation as he flipped through the magazine quickly to get to page fifty-two.

_1\. Compliment him. We all know that women love compliments. Guys actually love compliments too. Compliment his look, style, abilities, or even something totally random. Guys love to have their egos boosted._

Clark rolled his eyes at the idea. Bruce had enough of an ego as it was. He was brilliant, beautiful, and an amazing fighter, but the thought of actually telling him so galled Clark. Besides, he didn’t want to be anything like those simpering bimbos that Bruce was always seen with in public. If Bruce were that easily swayed, he would have gotten with many more people by now.

_2\. Be attentive. Men like women who are fully engaged. Listen to his dreams, his fears, his heart. And keep his confidences._

Well, that was just silly. Clark couldn’t keep his attention off of Bruce – that was the problem. Besides, Clark was always attentive to Bruce – but the other man simply wasn’t the type to be romanced by attentiveness. In fact, Clark got the feeling that he dreaded the attentions of people interested in being with him. No, the trouble was definitely in convincing Bruce to give _him_ attention.

Clearly, this had been a mistake. What had he been thinking? With Bruce constantly on his mind, he must not be thinking straight. Disappointed, Clark tossed the magazine in the recycling pile after all.

*

Clark first saw the book on Bruce’s bookshelf in the study, where he had been waiting to meet the other man to discuss a piece Clark Kent had been assigned to write about the Justice League. It was a thin book, labeled with Chinese characters. There were small English letters below them, reading _The Art of War_.

The moment he cracked open the book, Clark knew that he was onto something.

This was it.

Of course Bruce wasn’t just another ordinary guy who was going to be seduced by the silly advice prevalent in teenage girls’ magazines. Clark loved Bruce because he was extraordinary. Brilliant. Amazing.

To seduce Bruce, he needed to _think_ like Bruce. Like a strategist. He had to plan for every possible outcome. He needed to scope out the battlefield, observe the opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, and plot his every move. He needed to be ten steps ahead of Bruce at all times.

It was a daunting thought, but imagining how his life would change if he were able to singlehandedly crumble Bruce’s resolve was all the motivation he needed.

The next day, Clark Kent stopped by the Metropolis Public Library during his lunch break and spent the hour taking copious notes as he thumbed through a battered translation of ancient Chinese general-slash-philosopher’s Sun Tzu’s _The Art of War_.

*

_Move not unless you see an advantage; use not your troops unless there is something to be gained; fight not unless the position is critical. If it is to your advantage, make a forward move; if not, stay where you are._

Batman was not a physically affectionate person. Hell, he wasn’t an affectionate person, period. That was why his recent behavior had made Superman suspicious at all.

“He’s crazy for you,” Wonder Woman said simply as she added creamer to her coffee and swirled the half-filled cup aggressively with her right hand while managing to keep the hot liquid from spilling over the edges of the container. Mystified by the certainty in her voice, Superman cocked his head at her as he dumped sugar into his own caffeinated drink.

“What makes you say that?”

Wonder Woman rolled her eyes, though her lips curved in an amused smile at Superman’s obliviousness.

“It’s so obvious, Kal. Haven’t you noticed how much attention he pays to you during League meetings?”

Superman frowned, disbelieving. “But all we ever do is argue,” he pointed out, uncertain how he felt about Wonder Woman’s clearly amused expression.

“Do you see Batman even bothering to argue with anyone else? You’re the only one that he respects enough to engage with on that level.”

“What about you?” Superman pointed out stubbornly.

“Fine, other than me. But it’s different with you, Kal.”

“I don’t see how,” Superman replied, although he inwardly hoped that Diana would prove him wrong.

She shook her head at him as if he were the world’s biggest idiot. “You’re the only one he really talks to. You’re the only one he lets touch him. You’re the only one he treats as any semblance of a real friend.” He gave her a look, and she rolled her eyes. “Besides me,” she added dutifully. “But you and I both know Bruce isn’t close to me in the same way that he is to you.”

Superman mulled that thought over as they found a quiet table amidst the mostly abandoned cafeteria. “Would you say…I had something to gain by pursuing this?” he asked, staring at the steam that floated upward from the cup before him. He looked up at Wonder Woman when she reached across the table to lay a hand over his own. She was smiling.

“Absolutely,” she said, and he knew from her tone of voice that this was not an opinion to be dismissed. Diana knew Bruce almost as well as he did, and Superman was sure that was better than anybody other than Alfred and the boys. If Wonder Woman suspected something about Bruce, it was probably correct and Superman was merely too oblivious to see it. She paused, evaluating his contemplative expression with those sharp blue eyes that observed everything around her regally. “Are you going to? It won’t be easy, you realize.”

Superman laughed at the notion of getting Bruce to do anything being easy. “Of course. But if he returns my feelings, then… I’m willing to do whatever it takes to convince him that I’m worth his time.”

Behind him, Superman sensed familiar footsteps and an easily recognizable heartbeat heading directly their way. Batman squeezed Superman’s left shoulder briefly as he set down his own coffee and took a seat next to Superman.

“I’m beginning to think that I should construct some kind of IV drip to deposit caffeine directly into my bloodstream,” he grumbled, chugging half of his cup as if the steaming hot liquid were simply water to him.

Superman laughed, Batman quirked his lips upward at him, and Wonder Woman’s wise eyes twinkled at them knowingly from across the table.

*

_Begin by seizing something that your opponent holds dear; then, he will be amenable to your will._

Clark was terrified. Not of invading alien armies, psychotic costumed villains, or kryptonite-brandishing government agents, though.

He was terrified about the next part of his plan. Before he really went through with his plan to win over Bruce, he needed to talk to Alfred. After all, the man was in so many ways Bruce’s father, wife, and best friend all in one, and Clark knew that merely having Alfred’s approval would garner him an upper hand instantly – and when one was dealing with Bruce Wayne, one needed every advantage he could get. After all, anyone who knew Bruce well knew that Alfred was one of the only people in the world who could really make Bruce do anything.

Clark found Alfred in the cave, cleaning the monitors of the Batcomputer while Bruce was off on a business trip in Germany.

“Master Clark!” Alfred exclaimed in surprise, turning around on the ladder. Clark worried for a moment that he would fall from the precarious height, but Alfred was perfectly poised and balanced on the small steps, a spray bottle and cloth in his hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Is there an emergency?”

“No emergency, Alfred,” Clark assured him. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Me, sir?” Alfred frowned in concern. “Nothing too serious, I hope…”

“No, it’s… Well…” Clark paused, struggling with his words as he tried to calm the feelings of anxiety that were assaulting him. It was just Alfred. There was no need to be afraid. Except for the fact that without Alfred’s blessing, he wasn’t sure that trying to seduce Bruce would ever lead to anything other than disappointment and rejection. He steeled himself to say the words. He could do this. “It’s about Bruce,” he began. “I… Do you think he…”

“My dear boy,” Alfred said, and Clark shivered as he got the feeling, not for the first time, that he was completely transparent to Alfred’s knowing eyes. “Master Bruce would love to take you out to dinner.”

Clark felt his cheeks flame up at the mere suggestion. “I didn’t say –“ he tried to say, but his protests were nothing to Alfred’s raised eyebrows.

“You simply have to convince him that it would be a worthy investment, sir,” Alfred said cryptically, but it was enough to make Clark smile. It was exactly what he had come here looking for. He was about to stammer something when the sound of an engine interrupted their conversation and Nightwing zoomed into the Cave.

“Hi, Superman!” Dick said cheerfully before he even removed his helmet. “What are you doing here? Bruce is in Europe. By the way, are you guys dating yet? I really want to cash in on my fifty-dollar bet with Wally.”

Clark blushed at his words, despite how pleased he was to hear that another member of Bruce’s family approved of the idea of them together.

“Not yet, Dick,” he said placatingly. “But if all goes according to plan, then you’ll be fifty dollars richer before the end of the year.”

“Sweet!” Dick crowed triumphantly, shooting him a grin before he started looking something up on the computer. Clark smiled, the exchange leaving him optimistic about his chances, despite the fact that he would be dealing with Batman.

Maybe this would go smoother than he’d been expecting.

*

_Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy will be fresh for the fight; whoever is second in the field and has to hasten to battle will arrive exhausted._

When Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet, was sent to a holiday charity party put on by the mayor of Metropolis’s wife, his first thought was to reject the story. It wasn’t that he thought writing such articles was beneath him, but he did believe that there were more important issues to be brought to the public’s attention. But when he spotted a certain Gotham billionaire’s name on the guest list, his scorn toward the event was quickly replaced with excitement. This was a chance to make his move, while Bruce was out of costume. He had seen and worked with Bruce a few times since his conversations with Alfred and Dick, but something about the prospect of asking Batman out to dinner was very, very intimidating.

Unfortunately, just as Clark had finished making his hair presentable and was fidgeting with his new tie, Superman had to rush off to stop a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico, so Clark Kent was late to the event.

That’s why he was so disappointed when he arrived at the venue and spotted the back of Bruce’s head in the midst of a gaggle of giggling girls. He knew Brucie was popular, but did they have to paw at him like that? It wasn’t fair that Bruce let women touch him like that when Superman was rebuffed for even manly embraces or claps on the shoulder. Clark was fully aware that Bruce was putting on an act, but it still set his teeth on edge to watch those garishly painted nails stroke Bruce’s clean-shaven face, trailing along the strong jawline, tracing those tempting lips…

Clark sighed as he turned away from the irritating sight and tried to suppress his irrational possessiveness. He couldn’t help but tune into Bruce’s heartbeat, though.

It was official: he had it _bad_.

*

_The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat and then waited for an opportunity of defeating the enemy._

As Clark flitted from debutante to debutante, trying to gather sufficient information for at least a mildly interesting piece, he kept a constant eye on Bruce, feeling a stab of jealousy every time he saw him laughing with another pretty girl. Logically, he knew that if Bruce really wanted any of those women, he would've attained them a long time ago, but that train of thought didn't quite assuage his sense of insecurity. If Bruce wanted Clark, then, wouldn't he have done something about it, too?

Not to mention, Bruce seemed to be studiously avoiding him. The night was almost over before Clark ended up in the same circle as him. Clark tried to convince himself not to be hurt by that... After all, Bruce was playing a part here. There was no reason for a playboy billionaire to waste his time chatting with reporters (although Vicki Vale seemed to have wormed her way past his defenses, Clark noted bitterly).

“Ah, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said, “Clark Kent from the _Daily Planet_. We’ve met before. What do you think about Mrs. Sackett’s foundation? You inherited from your father a similar program for Gotham’s homeless children, correct?”

As Bruce started to feign disinterest in the charity by sharing an anecdote about a little girl he had once run into on the streets, Clark couldn’t help but be distracted by the sight of his friend, looking handsome as ever in an expensive suit as he spoke in an exaggeratedly careless tenor and waved around the champagne glass in his hand that Clark knew he had lifted to his lips not once throughout the entire night. While the girls hanging on Bruce’s arms laughed and cooed at his tale, Clark gathered his nerves together, willing his heart to stop racing at a completely unreasonable speed. He had fought megalomaniac businessmen, stopped alien invasions, and even returned from the dead – he could do this.

“Mr. Wayne,” he started. “May I ask you another question?”

“Ask away, Clem. And call me Bruce,” Bruce said flippantly. Clark almost lost his courage when Bruce laughed at something the girl to his right surreptitiously whispered in his ear. Oh god, what was he doing? What if Bruce said no? In public, they were both fine actors, but in private, the awkwardness would probably stew between them until it rotted their fragile friendship completely. _Stop it_ , Clark told himself as he tried to recall the confidence he had gained from talking to Diana, Alfred, and Dick.

“It’s Clark,” he corrected automatically, cheeks flaming. “Bruce, would you like to dance?”

Surprise flickered in those beloved blue eyes momentarily before it was replaced by amusement. Bruce Wayne smiled winningly – a grin with no heart to it – and held his arm out to an increasingly jittery Clark.

“Oh, why not, Carl?”

*

_The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed on him._

There was nothing to it – Clark loved being in Bruce’s arms. They were strong and firm, guiding him as they glided across the dance floor. Clark made an effort to stumble a few times, which made Bruce snort in amusement. They talked quietly about the Planet and the ridiculous things they had heard from various socialites throughout the night. Clark felt incredibly proud of himself when Bruce actually laughed outright at Clark’s imitation of the obsequious hostess.

The song ended far too quickly for Clark’s liking. But to his supreme pleasure, Bruce didn’t let go even when the last cadence transitioned fluidly into a new melody. Clark was hardly going to complain about that or the trivia Bruce was sharing with him about Gotham’s history. Immersing himself in the soothing, low tones of Bruce’s voice, Clark leaned ever-so-slightly closer to the other man, memorizing the smell of his crisp cologne and the rich base notes of his natural scent.

Instantly, Bruce tensed and drew back slightly, keeping Clark a careful distance away from him. Clark frowned and moved closer again, his eyebrows raised and his eyes daring Bruce to resist him.

With a sigh, Bruce succumbed and even relaxed a little.

Clark grinned.

*

_When you surround an army, leave an outlet free. Do not press a desperate foe too hard._

“I know what you’re doing, Clark.”

Clark looked at his companion, willing his expression to remain blank. Bruce was deliberately avoiding his gaze, studying the glimmering lightscape of Metropolis-by-night, his jaw locked stubbornly in what Clark recognized as one of his many irritated expressions. How was it that someone could look so handsome when frowning?

“And?” Clark replied, inching closer to the other man on the balcony. The more pronounced that frown became, the more Clark wanted to kiss it.

“I won’t have it.” Bruce didn’t move as Clark shifted his body so that it was perpendicular to Bruce’s, which was leaning in a deliberately casual way against the balustrade.

“Don’t I get a say in the matter?” Clark refuted, trying to keep his voice casual, as if Bruce’s words didn’t hurt. Bruce finally glanced at him, eyes sharp and tinged with both warning and wariness.

“The last time I checked, mutual agreement was necessary for the type of engagement you are attempting to force on me,” he said dryly.

“Force on you?” Clark repeated, unable to disguise the shock and hurt in his words. Bruce glared at him.

“Keep it down, you idiot,” he hissed.

“There’s no one else out here,” Clark reported in a quieter voice, glaring back at Bruce and still smiting from his accusation. “And what do you mean, force on you? You’re the one driving me crazy, talking to me and touching me and being so – “

He snapped his mouth shut and swallowed hard, sure that Bruce could hear his heart racing out of his chest even without enhanced hearing. That hadn’t been part of the contingency plan. He had said too much, exposed too much, and now Bruce was going to flee the scene like a terrified mare. He could feel Bruce – Bruce, who had leaned further into his arms and genuinely laughed at his jokes – shutting down next to him. Why had he gone through with this again? He had known from the beginning that he would screw it all up for them somehow. He couldn’t help thinking with his heart.

Bruce was looking at him now, but it was Clark’s turn to use the cityscape as an excuse to avoid those piercing eyes that were now narrowed in – what? Annoyance? Suspicion? Dislike? Clark wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Leave it alone, Kent,” Bruce – no, Batman – growled. “And keep your feelings to yourself from now on, for all of our sakes.”

He whirled on his feet and swept away as surely as if he had been wearing the bulletproof black cape around his shoulders instead of a custom-tailored suit.

It took immense willpower for Clark not to reach out and grab him, to call him back and apologize.

 _Let him go_ , he told himself. _You know it’ll only be worse if you push it._

With a sinking heart, he let Bruce go.

*

_It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable way of carrying it on._

Nobody ever said that winning Batman’s heart would be easy.

Clark wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

Bruce knew him better than that.

Clark was counting on it.

*

_If you know the enemy and you know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles._

Despite the humiliation of that night on the balcony, Clark had gained an important piece of knowledge from the time he had spent with Bruce – Bruce almost certainly was interested in him as well.

It was one thing to hear it from Bruce’s familiars and a different thing entirely to witness Bruce’s interest himself – affection given away by the spike in his heartbeat at Clark’s proximity, the way he had allowed Clark to pull him closer, the way he had run away without ever refuting Clark’s accusations.

This made all the difference in the world.

It meant that Clark hadn’t embarrassed himself for nothing – if there was a chance that he could change Bruce’s mind and win him over, then he was determined to do it. It would just take some careful maneuvering. After all, this was a war he was waging against the walls Bruce had spent years constructing; it was never going to be easy.

Even if he failed again, he wouldn’t give up.

When it came to Bruce, he would never give up.

*

_He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight. He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared._

Over the next two weeks, Clark only ever saw Bruce during Justice League meetings. Even then, Batman studiously avoided saying anything to him, which wounded Superman more than he would ever admit. He had never thought that he would miss arguing with someone, but there it was. Knowing something had gone wrong, Wonder Woman constantly tried to catch Superman’s eye, but Superman didn’t want to talk to anyone about his blunder.

Except maybe Bruce. He knew he could demand Batman’s attention, but the fact that the other man seemed to be coordinating missions so that the two of them would never have need to interact was rather discouraging. Superman knew very well how dangerous a skittish Bat could be and was terrified that attempting to make amends with his fellow crimefighter would only exacerbate the already awkward situation. Cornering Batman would only lead to more problems.

No, this wasn’t a job for Superman at all.

*

_If your enemy is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If sovereign and subject are in accord, put division between them. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected._

Clark waited until Batman was heading back to Bristol to turn on the Bat-Signal. Stepping back into the shadows cast by the rooftop structures, he awaited Batman’s arrival anxiously. He could change into Superman in an instant if anybody came up to see what was going on, but he didn’t want to be in disguise when he talked to Bruce. He didn’t want their usual performances interfering with something this important. He needed Bruce to know that he was being completely sincere. That was why he had chosen to simply don jeans and a T-shirt, over which he had thrown an old zip-up jacket.

Clark was so nervous that he almost missed the distinct sound of Batman’s grapple and the flutter of wind against his long cape. Heavy boots landed on the rooftop with a familiar thud, and Clark watched Batman look around the empty roof in bemusement for a few seconds before he stepped out from the shadows in which he had been hiding.

Batman didn’t say anything, merely narrowing his eyes. His chin was set in annoyance, yet Clark could detect the wariness in the rest of his body language.

“Hi,” Clark said, echoing Batman’s uncertainty. The white lenses narrowed further as Batman reached for his grapple gun. Clark winced and shoved away the hurt, trying to remember that he at least had the element of surprise here. “Just hear me out, Bruce, please.”

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Batman observed stupidly, but Clark noted with satisfaction that he didn’t seem to be intent on leaving anymore. He walked over to the light and turned it off, shrouding the rooftop in darkness. Clark swore he could feel Batman relaxing in the dimmer lighting.

“I didn’t want to be in costume for this,” he said, moving to stand directly in front of the other man. Tensing, Batman drew in a shaky breath at their proximity and then clenched his jaw even harder. Without really thinking, only certain that he had to stop Batman from fleeing again, Clark reached out and caressed the taut skin and muscle, fingertips trailing gently along the strong jawline, which relaxed under his touch. Before he could change his mind, he inched closer and brought their lips together.

For two terrifying seconds, Batman didn’t respond at all. It was like kissing a wall, only much scarier, because a wall couldn’t shove Clark away and then declare their friendship over. Amidst his horror at his impulsive action, though, Clark’s senses went into overdrive, trying to memorize the texture of Batman’s lips, the sensation of his faint stubble against Clark’s skin, the tangy smell of sweat from a busy night of patrol, the miniscule tremble that had reverberated through Batman’s body at that first point of contact – so slight that nobody but Clark would have noticed it.

But then Batman angled his head and parted his lips – _and Batman’s tongue was against his and Clark must be dreaming_ –

Clark wasn’t sure what was happening, but somewhere along the way, someone had removed Batman’s cowl – _he was kissing Bruce, it was really Bruce_ – and Clark’s fingers were delighted to tangle themselves in the newly revealed mass of black hair and use their grip to pull Bruce flush against him. Bruce had wound his arms around Clark’s neck, a position that Clark found deliciously new, warm, and definitely very welcome.

Suddenly, Bruce slammed him against the wall and pressed their bodies together. Clark just barely able to bite back a moan at the way they seemed to fit together, despite Bruce’s armor. Bruce had ripped off his jacket and was now making his way down Clark’s neck with his mouth, sucking and nipping at his skin so enthusiastically that Clark feared he was going to hurt himself. Clark wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he was floating, his legs wrapped around Bruce’s waist, and the heat in his belly burned so hotly that it was almost unbearable, and the feeling of was like nothing else he had ever experienced, and –

_Oh god!_

This wasn’t what he wanted. Well, it was, and every fiber of Clark’s body screamed for him to just ignore his conscience for once – but this wasn’t what he had planned. And maybe Bruce wanted him now – was willing to be with him now – but what about tomorrow? What about later tonight, even? Bruce obviously wanted him, but when things were never that simple when it came to the Bat.

Clark had accomplished what he had set out to do tonight – he had ambushed Bruce and caught him by surprise. They had done…significantly less talking than he had expected, but he couldn’t help it, when Bruce had been so obviously avoiding him and depriving him of physical contact with the one whose touch he craved the most. But now was not the time for such shenanigans – this wild ride was simply meant to give Bruce a taste of what he would be missing if he kept running away from his feelings.

And there it was. This was about helping Bruce, not about Clark satisfying his own desires in the only way he was able to at this point in time.

With the greatest reluctance he was sure he had ever experienced, he wrenched himself out of Bruce’s grasp and using superspeed, moved himself to a proper distance. It didn’t help that even under the cover of the dark Gotham night, Clark’s enhanced vision could still see that Bruce’s lips were now deliciously swollen.

“What the hell, Clark?”

Bruce’s murderous growl was raspy but not pitched low enough to be Batman’s. Clark realized that Bruce was panting, a state that complimented his flushed skin and messy hair. “Ravished” was a good look on him. Clark hoped that he would be able to put that expression on his face again. If all went well…

“I need to know that you’re not just going to run away,” Clark said, forcing himself to sound more confident than he really felt. Certain parts of him were begging to be reunited with Bruce, but he ignored them as best as he could. He didn’t just want Bruce breathless in his arms – he wanted his heart, his commitment, his everything, and he wasn’t about to settle when he knew they deserved to be together, that they would be better together. He wasn’t going to be happy with second place when victory was at his fingertips.

Bruce didn’t say anything. His face was stony and impassive, but Clark couldn’t take back his words now. It was all or nothing. However tempting it was, he was not going to settle for second best. He knew Bruce wanted him, and he knew those feelings went deeper than mere friendship and physical desire. He just needed Bruce to admit it, to show him that he was willing to let down his walls for Clark – or else his own uncertainty would drive him crazy. He continued, trying his best not to sound too plaintive or pitiful. “I need you to want this enough to try. I need to mean enough to you for you to try. Think about it, please.”

Still, Bruce’s lips remained pursed, his masks clearly back up.

Clark sighed and quickly put his jacket back on. Bruce’s eyes followed him as he started floating upward. Clark tried to think of a suitable goodbye but came up with nothing. All the passion and desperation had evaporated the moment he had stepped away from Bruce’s embrace, leaving only an undercurrent of tension that he wasn’t sure would ever go away.

“You know how to reach me,” he said finally.

As he flew out of Gotham, he could hear Bruce cursing to himself as he swung off the edge of the building.

*

_To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself._

Clark had made his move, but now it was up to Bruce to make his. He could only hope that Bruce would relent for once – he wanted this not just for himself but for his beloved friend as well. Bruce was constantly surrounded by so many allies, and yet he was always so alone. He never really loosened up, never really let himself go. Maybe it was a tad selfish, but Clark wanted Bruce to be able to do that with him.

So he took it as a good sign when Batman stopped avoiding him and things went mostly back to normal. Perhaps he was foolish to believe that a return to the status quo of longing and sexual frustration signified that he had a chance, but there was nothing he could do but be prepared for the worst and face the future and the prospect of having the thing he wanted most with some optimism.

His hope paid off one stormy night a couple of weeks after that fateful night on the rooftop. He had just settled down in his bed with a book when the phone in his apartment rang shrilly, disrupting the gentle rhythm of raindrops pattering against his window.

“It’s Alfred, sir. I’m afraid Master Bruce isn’t well. I’ve forced him to bed, but he is refusing to sleep until he speaks to you.”

Clark leapt out of bed, instantly spinning into his Superman costume with the phone still cradled against his ear.

“What happened? Is he okay? No, wait, I’ll be right there.”

Clark sped to Gotham so fast that he barely felt the rain.

The window to Bruce’s bedroom was open when he arrived at the Manor, so Clark flew straight in. The moonlight danced along the wood-paneled floors while the bed, on which Bruce reclined against a luxurious pile of pillows, sat shrouded in shadows.

“I could have just spoken to you on the phone,” Bruce said dryly, and Clark blushed at his own rashness. Upon hearing that Bruce was asking for him, he had simply rushed over, having wanted for weeks a sign that Bruce was thinking about his proposal at all. Sticking to his plans was harder than he had expected.

“I was worried,” he defended, edging closer to the bed. “What happened?”

There was a long silence, during which Clark scanned Bruce’s body with his x-ray vision, checking for broken bones or telltale wounds. There were bruises and the usual signs of battering, but nothing seemed to be physically wrong with Bruce.

“You won’t find anything,” Bruce said, reading his confusion easily. “Crane has been lying low recently, but he was out on the streets with a new strain of fear toxin tonight. I developed a new antidote to counteract its effects, but that wasn’t until an hour ago.”

So Bruce had been poisoned. But he had healed himself – what did he need Clark for?

Again, Bruce responded to his unspoken question. “I asked for you because I needed to know that you were safe.” His voice faltered on the last few words, as if he were dismayed by his own admission.

“Me? I’m fine, Bruce,” replied Clark, still puzzled. “It was a quiet night. What did you see?”

Bruce became stonily silent, his eyes hooded and lips pursed in a deep frown, and Clark knew he would probably never find out what had haunted Bruce and affected him so deeply. That was okay. As long as Bruce was okay…

“Well, I’m fine, you’re fine, so… I’m sorry for just barging in on you like this. You should get some rest.”

Another silence. This was starting to unnerve even Clark, who was very much accustomed to dealing with Bruce’s refusal to embrace ordinary conversation conventions. He waited for the other man to say something. Clark had flown all the way down to Gotham; Bruce at least owed him a reluctant thanks or a terse goodbye. But in this instance, Bruce opted for a different kind of gratitude.

“Don’t go,” he said so quietly that Clark wondered briefly if his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Bruce?”

Time seemed to slow to a crawl when Bruce sat up and leaned forward. His hand tugged on the smooth material of the Superman suit and pulled Clark into a warm, firm kiss. Startled, Clark sat down on the bed without breaking the liplock. Reverently, he brought his hands up to the sides of Bruce’s face, praying that Bruce wouldn’t run away and stupidly hoping that he could just hold him down if he decided to do so.

“Stay here tonight,” Bruce whispered against his lips when they finally parted. It sounded more like a question than a command, and Clark didn’t hesitate to answer it by kicking off his shoes and throwing his cape on the ground. He turned to Bruce with a smile, which widened when Bruce scooted over in the almost comically enormous bed and glanced meaningfully at the remaining space.

By the time they settled down to sleep, Clark curled around Bruce’s body protectively, Bruce had nothing to fear.

*

_The best victory is when the opponent surrenders of his own accord before there are any actual hostilities. It is best to win without fighting._

At sunrise, Clark woke up to the beautiful sight of Bruce in his arms, his head pillowed against Clark’s broad shoulder and arm thrown over Clark’s bare abdomen like he owned it.

He lay there serenely, memorizing every detail of the moment and reviewing the passionate night they had shared previously. Hours passed before Bruce stirred, but Clark didn’t mind. He was terrified the illusion of victory would shatter once Bruce awoke. If Bruce pushed him away again, though, he would keep marching forth. Last night, he had seen those barriers brought down for him. Clark shivered in delight at the mere memory of Bruce’s unguarded eyes, meeting Clark’s own with magnificent certainty as Clark moved above him.

Due to his enhanced senses, Clark knew exactly when Bruce awakened, but he chose to stay silent, with his eyes closed, until Bruce acknowledged his presence. After what felt like centuries but must have been only minutes, he felt soft lips pressing a kiss against his neck. Fingers calloused by years of fighting traced the contours of his face with an uncharacteristic gentleness. Clark opened his eyes and met Bruce’s gaze, which was intense and filled with so many different and conflicting emotions that Clark couldn’t even begin to name them. At least Bruce hadn’t kicked him out of bed yet. That was a good sign, right?

“Good morning,” Clark whispered.

“Good morning, Clark,” replied Bruce, looking down almost shyly. When he next spoke, it was into the crook of Clark’s neck, but Clark heard and clung onto every word as if they were priceless treasures being entrusted to him.

“I thought about what you said,” Bruce began softly, and Clark’s heart leaped. He tried to calm it; despite Bruce’s actions and enthusiasm last night, the Bat was as unpredictable as the city he guarded. “Last night, the toxin made me realize that I would never forgive myself if you perished without ever knowing that I… You told me you needed to know I wanted this enough to try. I… Clark, I have _always_ …”

And suddenly, Clark realized that he didn’t need Bruce to say the words. Clark didn’t need words to understand Bruce – he could read so much more from his facial expressions, from his body language, from his actions. It was more than enough that he had even admitted that whatever the fear toxin had made him see had affected him. He knew Bruce loved him deeply. He had just wanted Bruce to give himself the chance to be loved back.

It had been an uphill battle, but lying in bed on a Saturday morning with the world’s most brilliant detective in his arms, there was no doubt in Clark’s mind that it had been worth it. Every setback, every minor victory, had led them to this point. In the end, his perseverance and stubbornness had pulled through. In the end, there was nothing to be afraid of. In the end, Clark hadn’t had to force himself past Bruce’s walls after all – Bruce had lowered them himself. It only made the victory more beautiful.

Clark lifted his chin and kissed him, arm tightening around Bruce’s hard, muscled body reassuringly. “I know,” he replied, knowing that he was smiling goofily but not being caring enough to suppress it. “Hush, Bruce, I know.”

Clark knew he had truly won when Bruce smiled back at him, tentative but hopeful.

Never in all their years of acquaintance had Clark ever witnessed Bruce looking so hopeful.

It was the most breathtaking sight he had ever seen.

*

_Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting._


End file.
